Ruth was inflammable; she would always be flaring up swiftly, in pity, in tenderness, in anger; she would always be answering impulses, without seeking to weigh or to analyse them. What ho! lights! lights!" And, shouting as he went, he flung himself down stairs. "If I had my old tools with me, we'd soon master this obstacle," he muttered. " He had now gained the high road. It was drafty and cold most of the time, but she found that she was not nearly as sensitive to the cold as long as he was 99 there to warm her up.
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